Tag: poet

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Ink and Skin

beatrizesmer

Upon this self-known skin, I weave my tapestry of ink—a silent symphony of words etched into the parchment of existence. Each stroke, deliberate and tender, births poetry turned thoughts that breathe. The quill dances, a partner in this clandestine waltz, tracing the contours of memory and desire. It knows the secrets whispered by moonlight, the ache of unspoken dreams, and the yearning that resides in the marrow of bones. Each scribe, a conjurer of worlds, dips into the well of longing. They bleed their truth onto the canvas of time, leaving behind footprints of fire. For what is a poet … Continue reading Ink and Skin

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In the Silence of My Soul

beatrizesmer

In the silence of my soul, I weave words with threads of my own noise. Each syllable, a whispered echo of forgotten dreams. The ink spills from my heart, staining the parchment with secrets and confessions. I forget about my mistakes—the stumbles, the missteps—because I am poor of pride. Humility wraps around me like a tattered cloak, and I walk barefoot through the corridors of memory. The stories of others become my compass. I am lost in their laughter, their tears, their unspoken longings. Their lives etch themselves upon my skin, leaving faint scars that tell of shared humanity. And … Continue reading In the Silence of My Soul

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“The Labor of the Heart”

beatrizesmer

No, my friend, I am not a poet. My ink does not dance to the rhythm of stardust or weave sonnets from moonbeams. Yet, sometimes, my verses tiptoe along the edge of rhyme, whispering secrets to the wind. I am a purveyor of elevated, lofty prose—a weaver of tales that stretch their wings toward the heavens. My words, like silk threads, spin stories of forgotten lands and lost loves. But poetry? No, that eludes me. Only a storyteller, hardly sublime. I gather fragments of memories, string them together like pearls on a thread. Each tale a constellation, stitched across the … Continue reading “The Labor of the Heart”

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Tide’s Serenade

beatrizesmer

You are the vast ocean, an expanse of secrets whispered across millennia. Your depths cradle forgotten tales, sunken ships, and the echoes of ancient mariners. I, a mere wanderer, am but stray feet upon your shore—a transient visitor in the grand theater of your waves. The sand clings to my soles, gritty and yielding. Each grain tells a story: of storms that shaped your contours, of lovers who etched their initials into your skin, and of children who built castles only to watch them crumble. I dig deeper, seeking solace in your embrace. My footprints merge with those of countless … Continue reading Tide’s Serenade

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The Heart’s Mosaic

beatrizesmer

In the quiet chambers of my chest, there lies a human-shaped hole, a delicate void etched into the very fabric of my being. It is not a wound, but rather a tender alcove, a space where memories gather like fallen leaves seeking refuge. Everyone I’ve met—strangers, lovers, fleeting companions—has left their mark upon me. They’ve woven their stories into the tapestries of my soul, each thread a whisper, a laughter, a tear. And yet, in their wake, they’ve also claimed a fragment of my heart. A piece willingly surrendered, as if love were a currency traded in ephemeral exchanges. I am a wanderer, a … Continue reading The Heart’s Mosaic

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Poetry of the night

beatrizesmer

In the quiet of night, when the world hushes its clamor and the stars gather to witness our secrets, I find myself tracing the contours of memory. There are things I can’t unread, etched into my senses like whispered confessions. Skin, oh, how it speaks! Beneath my fingertips, it unravels stories—the delicate script of longing and desire. Each ridge, each curve, a chapter waiting to be explored. It’s like Braille, a language of touch that transcends mere sensation. I read you there, my fingers deciphering the map of your existence—the rise and fall of your breath, the hidden scars, the … Continue reading Poetry of the night

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If I Insist

beatrizesmer

If I insist in your mouth, in your prayer,Do not mistake my fervor for impatience.I am not a beggar, but a gardener tending fragile blooms.Take good care of me, as you would a delicate secret. Guardian of Whispers I am the echo that lingers in sacred spaces,The hushed syllables that cling to your breath.When you speak my name, do so with reverence—For I am woven into the fabric of your longing. The Art of Holding Back Let not the longing seep through your fingers,Like sand slipping from an open palm.We are custodians of moments, guardians of memories—And sometimes, love thrives … Continue reading If I Insist

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The Poet’s Solitude

beatrizesmer

What has made me a poet? Only this: those silent ravings—the tempests that churn within when the world presses too close. Even in the arms of those I have most loved, there blooms an ache—an insatiable hunger for solitude. The desire to escape—to slip through the cracks of existence, to be alone with my thoughts—becomes a beacon. It pulses, immutable, like a distant star. And in that yearning, all becomes uncanny—the familiar streets, the faces, the whispered secrets. I have loved deeply—oh, how I have loved! But love, too, can be a tempest—a wild sea that threatens to engulf the … Continue reading The Poet’s Solitude

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Ephemeral Echoes

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Sometimes, I am gifted fragments of existence—fleeting glimpses that dance before my eyes. These delicate shards of reality, like fireflies in twilight, refuse to fade. They cling to my soul, etching themselves into the tapestry of memory. There exists a place—an ethereal threshold where dreams and waking life intertwine. Perhaps it is real, or perhaps it resides within the secret chambers of my heart. Regardless, I have visited it countless times, tracing its contours with the tender brushstrokes of my imagination. On that porch—a sanctuary of weathered wood—I sit, gazing out over a sun-kissed yard. The sun, a benevolent artist, … Continue reading Ephemeral Echoes

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Echoes of Absence

beatrizesmer

There is a disembodied sadness, a phantom ache that lingers in the hollows of memory. It emerges from the chasm between having and not having, a silent lament for what once was and what now eludes our grasp. The presence of touch, once warm and intimate, has been bartered away, replaced by the presence of absence—a void that gnaws at the edges of our souls. How awful it is—the way time unravels our certainties, leaving us with frayed threads of longing. Sundays, those quiet interludes, become vessels for coffee and the art of not opening our eyes wide enough to meet the day’s gaze. We cocoon ourselves in half-slumber, shielding … Continue reading Echoes of Absence